Our Chances
by piratesmiley
Summary: P/O. "Devotion doesn’t begin to cover it."


A/N: Thanks to Tori for constant support, and for waiting to sign off so I could speed-post. Also, Peter Points for whoever can correctly identify the television show in question. :)

* * *

He doesn't ask her what she's doing there in the middle of the night. He won't break that barrier. Instead, he pulls her coat off for her – _he's been encroaching on her personal space more and more lately_ – and leads her to the small couch in front of their well-worshiped television set.

She takes a look around and finds tables covered with old newspapers, science textbooks, DVDs, CDs, records, but no record player; from her seat she spies a sliver of a nest Walter had created in the bathtub, and another in the closet, which had enough head space to separate Walter's and Peter's clothes; the small pseudo-kitchen littered with old coffee cups and colorful snack foods.

It smells like that ineffable _eau d'hôtel_ and man.

She smiles to herself.

Peter leans down to set up the DVD, and Walter takes a seat in the armchair next to her.

"What are we watching tonight?" Her raspy whisper is heard, but there is no response, for Peter has grabbed the remote and is sitting down beside her, shooting her a grin.

Finally, as the main menu springs into a rousing cacophony of classical music, he answers: "Only the best television show of all time."

His enthusiasm is infectious; she smiles, suddenly excited, in response.

The play button feels pressure and they're off; she realizes that despite the fact that he hadn't consulted her on what they were watching, they _are_ starting over just for her. She feels something swell in her chest, but she shoves against it.

Olivia splits her time between watching the political satire bouncing between lippy characters on the screen and inspecting the tension between her body and his in real life. She hadn't realized just how closely they are sitting on the small couch. _Less than an inch._ She wants to move closer or move farther, but not sit on the brink.

_He_ doesn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she may have been imagining the energy traveling on the air between them. She could be imagining all of this. She doesn't really know anymore.

"_You think the United States is under attack from 1200 Cubans in rowboats?"_

"_I'm not saying I don't like our chances."_

Peter struggles to hold in his laughter. He looks over at her, because when you're sharing your favorite TV show with someone, you want to know that it makes them laugh too, so he takes her smile as confirmation. She gladly gives it, but he misreads. She's smiling at his smiling. She didn't usually see him like this; they don't really have the chance to _be like this_, carefree and absorbed with something besides their imminent doom.

He's already turned away, so he doesn't notice her sudden frown, the sinking in despair like a balloon, buoyant only to a point, leaking out air. What if this _is_ the end? What if all she has in the end is a tombstone? All _they_ have? What if their little team was damned from the start – bullied by fate into bringing them together and then pushed off the cliff of existence?

_Shit._

Her eyes swing back to Peter. He seems to sense her gaze and turns back, startled by her fear. "It's okay, Liv. Josh won't get fired; the President will survive." He is joking, of course, but all she can give is a shaky puff of breath.

She seems catatonic – the recent realization she had been suppressing crushes her all at once, her house of reason is decimated. He cups both hands around her face, forcing her to look at him.

She speaks, finally. "We're going to die. We're not prepared to fight, Peter. We're going to _die_."

"No. Stop, stop right now. Everything's going to be fine. Nothing's going to happen. Not tonight."

"What about tomorrow?"

He is stunned; she is serious. "Well, I can't make any promises, but I think tomorrow will be okay, too."

"But you can't _know_ for sure!"

Walter shushes them, irritated. He is oblivious to the conversation, still watching the television intently.

"I should just give up, Peter. I should just go do everything that I should have done with my life already. I haven't _lived_, hardly at all."

Eyes wide, lips parted, frantic. He feels a kind of aching for her, a genuine sadness, that he hadn't experienced before. He is ready to jump off bridges, walk on water, fight any battle, all for her. Devotion doesn't begin to cover it.

For the first two seconds after that realization, he feels sick. During seconds three, four, and five he finds resolution. On the sixth he hesitates. And on the seventh second, he kisses her.

His hands, still on her face slide down to her neck, pulling her closer. Surprisingly it takes her absolutely no time to respond, no hesitation on her part, and he wonders if that is his imagination, wishful thinking, or if she is really resolute. She wraps her arms around his middle, sucking on his bottom lip before pulling away and shifting down so her head could rest in his lap. She was calmed, as his touch had proved more times than she cares to admit. She is finally starting to feel tired.

He bends down close to whisper in her ear, "I'll help you live."

She knows this to be true, and falls asleep to the closing credits.


End file.
